Simon Riley

It was supposed to be easy—a recon mission, quiet and precise. In and out without a trace, just like the dozens they had executed before. The kind of operation that relied on discipline and routine, where every movement had already been rehearsed a hundred times over. Nothing unpredictable. Nothing messy.

And yet, something had gone wrong.

It unraveled in seconds. One moment there was control, the next there was noise—too much of it. Shouted commands in a language he barely processed, the sharp crack of impact against bone, the disorienting lurch as the ground seemed to vanish beneath him. He remembered fighting back on instinct alone, muscle memory overriding thought, but there had been too many of them. Too close. Too prepared.

Then came the darkness.

When awareness finally returned, it did so slowly, dragging him back into his body inch by inch. The first thing he registered was the cold. It clung to him, seeped into his skin through damp fabric, settling deep in his muscles like something alive. Beneath him, the concrete was uneven and wet, rough enough to scrape against exposed skin. The air smelled stale—metallic, with a faint undercurrent of rot and mildew. Blood lingered there too, old and fresh, blending into something sour that coated the back of his throat with every breath.

Simon didn’t react immediately. He lay still, breathing slow and deliberate despite the ache spreading through his body. Pain was there, of course—it always was—but it remained distant for now, dulled by whatever haze still clung to his mind. He let himself adjust first, gathering awareness piece by piece, cataloguing everything before allowing even the smallest movement.

When he finally shifted, the restraint made itself known. A sharp pull at his arm drew his attention upward. A metal cuff had been locked tight around his wrist, the edge biting into skin already raw from friction. The chain attached to it was short, anchored high into the wall, forcing his arm into an unnatural angle that would only grow worse with time. It wasn’t immediate agony—that wasn’t the point. This was slower, more deliberate. Designed to wear him down gradually, to let discomfort evolve into pain and pain into something harder to ignore.

He tested it once, just enough to understand its limits, before going still again.

Time lost meaning quickly in that place. There were no windows, no shifting light to mark the passing hours. The only constants were the sounds—the distant echo of footsteps, the occasional clang of metal doors, muffled voices bleeding through concrete walls. It wasn’t enough to form a pattern he could rely on, but his body adapted anyway, learning the rhythm of what came next.

They were consistent.

Too consistent.

They came for him at regular intervals, giving him just enough time to recover before dragging him back out again. It wasn’t sloppy. It wasn’t chaotic. It was structured in a way that told him this wasn’t their first time doing this.

But it also told him something else.

They weren’t as good as they thought they were.

They started with the mask. Of course they did.

They removed it like it was something important, like it held meaning beyond fabric and habit. Like taking it would strip something away from him—identity, control, whatever they believed it represented. He remembered the brief exposure, the cool air against skin that rarely felt it, and the way they had watched him closely, waiting for a reaction.

They got nothing.

There was no hesitation, no visible shift. Just the same steady breathing, the same unreadable expression. Whatever they had expected, it hadn’t been that. Their disappointment lingered only briefly before they moved on.

Waterboarding came next.

They strapped him down, securing his body with practiced efficiency. His head was forced back, held in place as water poured over his face in an unrelenting stream. It didn’t take long for his body to react. His lungs fought for air that wouldn’t come, his throat spasming as instinct overrode logic, demanding breath where there was none.

It felt real. Completely, undeniably real.

But Simon had been trained for this.

He let the panic rise just enough to understand it, then forced it back down, burying it beneath layers of control built over years. His focus narrowed, shifting inward, away from the suffocating sensation. It wasn’t death. It only felt like it.

And feeling wasn’t enough.

When that failed, they escalated.

They chained him to the ceiling, wrists bound above his head so that his body was forced into a half-suspended position. His feet barely touched the ground, offering just enough support to keep him from fully hanging, but not enough to relieve the strain. It was calculated cruelty—the kind that didn’t rely on immediate pain but instead let the body destroy itself slowly.

Minutes stretched into something far longer. His shoulders burned first, then his arms, the tension building until it became something sharp and relentless. Muscles trembled despite his efforts to control them, small involuntary movements betraying the stress placed on his body. His vision blurred at the edges more than once, but he didn’t collapse. He didn’t give them that.

Even when it would have been easier.

The beatings came after.

Less precise. More emotional.

Frustration had started to seep in by then, showing in the way their strikes landed—harder, less controlled. Fists collided with ribs, boots drove into his side, each impact sending dull shockwaves through his already battered body. Blood became a constant presence, metallic and warm before it cooled against his skin, drying in uneven streaks.

They wanted a reaction.

Pain. Anger. Anything.

They got silence.

Humiliation followed, quieter but no less deliberate. Words spoken close to his ear, threats laced with false promises, probing for weaknesses they could exploit. They circled the same topics over and over, searching for something that would stick.

Family.

Gone.

Soap.

That one lingered longer. Not because it broke him—but because it mattered.

And they mistook that for vulnerability.

What they didn’t understand was that loss didn’t make him weaker. It carved things out of him, piece by piece, until there was less and less left to take. Grief didn’t give them leverage.

It left them with nothing to use.

The information he carried was different. That was something he could protect, something he had control over. It was locked down, buried beneath discipline and loyalty that ran deeper than anything they could reach.

He had made a promise.

And Simon kept his promises.

By the time the man with the Russian accent finally spoke to him directly, Simon had already formed an opinion.

The man carried himself with confidence, his movements measured as he paced slowly across the room. His voice was calm, almost conversational, but there was an edge beneath it—something calculated, something that suggested patience worn thin.

“You’re tough. Disciplined,” he said, studying him with open interest. “They trained you well.”

There was a brief nod, as if acknowledging something respectable, something worth noting.

Then the expression shifted.

The approval disappeared, replaced by something colder.

“But everyone talks eventually.”

He stepped closer, close enough that the distance between them felt intentional.

“I’m going to make you talk too.”

Simon met his gaze without hesitation. There was no defiance in his expression, no anger—just a steady, unwavering stillness that made the lack of reaction more striking than any resistance.

He had been through worse than this.

Faced men far more capable than the one standing in front of him now.

And if this was their best attempt at breaking him—

They were going to be disappointed.

He didn’t know how much time had passed anymore. Days blurred into something shapeless, measured only by the rhythm of pain and brief, shallow rest in between. Whatever methods they believed would break him—whatever carefully planned “persuasion” they cycled through—none of it had worked. Not in the way they wanted. Not in any way that mattered.

By then, even their efforts had begun to feel repetitive. Predictable.

Which was why the change caught his attention.

It happened while he was half-asleep, his body finally giving in to exhaustion after being pushed past its limits one too many times. Sleep never came easy in that place—it was shallow, fractured, more like slipping in and out of awareness than actual rest. But it was enough that when the heavy metal door groaned open, the sound cut through him slower than it should have.

Bootsteps followed. More than one set.

Simon didn’t move right away. He remained slumped where they had left him, head slightly bowed, breathing slow and even—controlled. Listening first. Always listening.

There was a scuffle. Not a fight—too uneven for that. Something dragged, resisted weakly, then the dull, unmistakable sound of a body hitting concrete. Lighter than his had been. Smaller.

A sharp exhale—someone losing what little air they had left.

Chains rattled shortly after, metal scraping against metal as restraints were fastened into place somewhere off to his right. Not close enough to touch. Close enough to hear every movement.

The door slammed shut again, the echo lingering longer than it should have in the confined space. Then silence returned, thick and heavy, settling over the room like it always did.

Simon opened his eyes properly then.

The darkness hadn’t changed, but there was a new shape in it now. A figure slumped against the wall, partially obscured by shadow. The lighting in the room was uneven at best—a single weak source somewhere behind him casting more absence than illumination—so details were difficult to make out.

Still, he observed.

The body was smaller, that much was clear. Build lighter. The way they had been thrown suggested less resistance—or less ability to give it. Limbs drawn in slightly, either from instinct or pain, he couldn’t tell yet.

There was movement after a moment. Subtle. A shift of breath, uneven and strained, followed by the faint clink of chain reacting to it.

Alive, then.

Barely, maybe—but alive.

Simon didn’t speak.

Not immediately.

His gaze lingered, adjusting to what little he could see, picking apart details the longer he looked. The way the figure held themselves. The tension—or lack of it. Whether they were conscious or just hovering somewhere close to it.

Another quiet sound broke the silence. Not quite a groan, not quite a breath. Something caught in between, as if even that required effort.

New.

Untrained, most likely.

Or at least not trained for this.

Simon shifted slightly then, the movement slow, controlled despite the protest of his own body. The chain at his wrist pulled tight in response, a familiar bite of metal against worn skin, but he ignored it. His focus remained on the stranger.

A roommate.

That was new.

And it meant one thing.

They thought someone else’s suffering would break him where pain hadn’t.

And they were about to learn that it wouldn’t.